These Days Just Slip Away
by The Brat Prince
Summary: When you want something, you have to take it. You have to grab it by the balls, and throw down. SLASH. Craig/Clyde, Craig/Token, Style, and K squared.
1. Look For The Stars As The Sun Goes Down

**These Days Just Slip Away  
**

_Chapter One: And Look For The Stars As The Sun Goes Down_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: The pairings are going to be Craig/Clyde, Craig/Token, Style, and K squared. And yes, I'm a bad person for posting another story- I had it half written and laying around, and couldn't help myself. –sad face- Please review.

* * *

I've got this friend. He says that when you want something, you have to take it. You have to grab it by the balls, and throw down. It isn't exactly a new concept, coming from him. He's been a pit bull since I first met him, back in grade school. Suppose he had to be, what with being a minority in a small mountain town. We're not the most politically correct bunch, here in good 'ol South Park, Colorado. Not by a long shot.

Anyway, point being, point is- I've never been very good at kicking life in the cajones and yelling, "Give me all you got!"

I'm not really a conflict-oriented kind of guy. I mean, I get in a lot of fights, but…I'm a pacifist. No, dude. I'm serious. Stop laughing. Me. Craig Tucker. All I'm saying is give peace a chance.

I guess that's a rather misleading introduction. Theoretically, I don't like peace at all. There's this fat asshole in town who did a stint as a hippie exterminator, and okay, yeah, I kind of agreed with his methods. Hippies are skanky. They smell grody, like six-weeks-unwashed hair and pits and BO with a trace of the ganja trailing behind them. I'm not into fringed vests and dreadlocks and Eastern philosophy. I might have to rescind that one bit. Dreadlocks can be fucking hot, on the right person.

But backpedaling; hippie hating aside, I like violence. I like movies about war, and guns, and explosions, and video games about the same. I like watching fist fights and wrestling, even though I know some of it's not real. Hell, I even used to watch the kid, the one who gave me the advice, get into full on brawls in our cafeteria in high school. He was a real firecracker, a spitfire, whatever, which I guess is the kind of thing you're only supposed to say about girls, but this friend is most definitely male. I saw his junk, once, in the showers after gym, and he's decent down there. It's enough to see how all the trouble started, anyway.

Violence is great. I'm not going to lie and say it doesn't get me off, and I'm not going to say that I've never been in a fight. Just that I don't like fights. I don't like intimidation, although I've been told I'm pretty damned good at it, and I don't like being aggressive with no reason, and trust me. I rarely find a reason for anything.

I've just got better things to do, I guess. Like watch reruns of Red Racer on TV.

That's a lie. I haven't watched Red Racer since I was nine, but I loved it back then, and my family's never really let me live that one down. They tell everyone they meet it's my favorite show. Sometimes people even believe them. I mean, what loser still likes the same TV show they watched when they were nine? People don't have high expectations of me, really, that they'd believe that shit.

I'm getting off track again. I have concentration problems. When I was a kid, I had this tic, like a nervous tic. I didn't even know I did it, but it got me in a lot of trouble. I ended up in the principal's office a lot, and I mean, they claimed I was being belligerent for doing it. Obviously they didn't know me very well, because I'm not a belligerent kind of guy. I'm not a very good fighter. I'm not very good at anything, except mouthing off, really. I'm lucky I even managed to graduate high school, and that's kind of how my story all starts.

It's the day after graduation that I make this friend; this guy I'd always known but never really liked.

We're kind of forced together. And by forced, I mean physically.

Sixteen hours on a plane to fucking India will do that to a person.

See, my dad has this new job where he can travel, and he thought it would be fun and exciting to drag the rest of the family along. There's me, my mom, my dad, and my little slut sister stuffed on a plane that smells vaguely of curry for a massive amount of time. I have this killer hangover from our graduation party at my best friend's the night before. It had been the biggest party in the history of South Park, in my opinion, and well worth the grounding my friend had received this very morning. Anyway, my stomach is roiling, my head's throbbing, and there's a whole frickin' load of college kids on some study abroad program that seem to think the plane's party central. They keep breaking into song and stealing mini bottles from the stewardesses. Since drunkenness increases in high altitudes, it's pretty much made all of them lightweights.

I plan on writing the local university a strongly worded letter if I make it back without contracting malaria, or AIDs, or something.

Fate's a capricious bitch, and so I guess she sees fit not to let me suffer alone.

I'm making my way back to the cramped bathrooms, trying not to stumble over my own feet as we hit a patch of turbulence for what must be the eightieth time, and I swear, vomit starts bubbling up my throat. Have you ever had to swallow your own puke? It's disgusting.

Anyway, it's at that point that the plane jolts me forward, right into some dude's crotch. I'm getting an eyeful of his fly and the shiny button keeping his jeans clothes when I hear a loud, familiar woman's voice scream, "What, what, what?"

I glance up to see pinched features, a protruding nose that might as well be as big as Everest, mean, beady eyes, and hair so bright I nearly mistake it for a fire.

Confused as hell, I tilt my face so I can see the owner of the crotch that so nicely broke my fall. There he is. It's him.

"Fuck, dude," he says, staring at me with eyes like a Maharaja's jewels, "What are you doing on this flight?"

He ignores his mother's loud protests at his word usage and keeps staring. He's like here, and he shouldn't be here, because he should be home.

"Broflovski?" I demand, incredulous.

Kyle Broflovski. South Park's lone Jew. He's a fucking maniacal genius, let me tell you. He's also a total asshole. Every time I run into him or his dick friends, they end up causing me grief. There was this one time, in Peru, that I've been trying to block out for years. Its costing big bucks with the amount of therapists I've had to go to, even now. Nightmares, you know?

"Craig?" he asks, but he's got this fucking cocky tone, like he's already assessed the situation and has everything under control.

"My dad's doing an inspection of some company's call center and dragged us all along," I say by way of explanation, "You?"

"Mom has a friend who's campaigning for the anti-sodomy laws to be overturned," Kyle replies, and I haven't got any idea what he means, "They're holding a protest in Bangalore, and mom thought it would constitute a cultural vacation. Getting a jump on study abroad, I guess."

I stare at him blankly, and he sighs and queries, "You have no idea what an anti-sodomy law is, do you?"

"No."

"Get off my dick, man," he tells me, glaring slightly. I find my feet, and he says, "Good. I was going to puke on your head."

I make a face, and he laughs, standing. Kyle's got this great laugh. Charismatic, or something.

"Follow me," he commands.

You could say he's really an interesting looking dude. He's tall, taller than any of us thought he'd get. He's got to be like six foot three, which you would think means he has to be basketball player, and he is, but he's not very good at it. It's his favorite game, but all those long limbs end up getting in the way, like he's never quite adjusted to them. He's got this graceful way of moving, despite it. He lopes along the aisles of the plane like a wolf, which must be hard, since he's kind of got to duck his head a little just to clear the ceiling.

He's got his mom's hair, too, like someone lit a match on his head and it just never stopped burning. It's real curly, but not in a bad way. I don't think he likes it much though 'cause he's always tugging at it or pulling it or pushing it back like it's just in the way. It's attractive though, for chicks. They go wild for Kyle Broflovski. His curls frame this pale, angular face and these pouty lips that don't quite fit with the strong line of his jaw, and apparently it's a 'fetching combination'. Least that's what my last girlfriend told me once, before we broke up. She was a cheating whore though, so I don't put much merit in what she told me.

Still, he gets a lot of stares when he walks down the aisle, and he seems immune to them, like he doesn't even know that he's caught everyone's attention. I catch a few of the college girls staring openly. When I pass, they go back to bobbing to the beats of their too-loud iPods, thrashing like spastic ball-joint Barbie dolls. Fuck them.

We reach the bathroom in the back, and it's occupied. Doesn't surprise me. They served up some kind of spicy goo for dinner, and I doubt it agreed with all the white folk on the planes' stomachs. Kyle relaxes, leaning against the plastic side of the emergency exit door, and I slump against the bathroom cubicle. I hear an unpleasant noise that makes me think neither of the two stalls is going to be vacant any time soon.

"You saved me, dude," Kyle says, and I must look confused again, because he says, "My mom strong armed me into this. I don't want to go to fucking India. I don't even like Indians."

"Have you even met one? The only dot head we got in town is that guy at the Stop-N-Pump."

"Yeah, and he's a jerkoff," Kyle says dismissively. For someone who's had to deal with discrimination his whole life, he doesn't seem very tolerant.

"Okay," I reply, because I never thought one way or another about the Indian dude who runs our town's only gas station.

"So, anti-sodomy laws, right?" Kyle asks, and it takes me a moment to figure out what he's talking about.

"Sure," I shrug, because I haven't got anything better to do. I consider wrenching the emergency exit open and jumping out of the plane, but I don't like my chances. Even if I survive the zillion mile fall, I'm pretty sure we're over the ocean, and with my luck, I'll get eaten by Jaws. Or Shamu.

Kyle starts in on some long winded explanation about how British people subjugated the Indian subcontinent and then ditched, leaving behind all their laws. It's pretty boring until he gets to the good part, the anti-sodomy part, which apparently means that you can't have any kind of experimental sex.

"It's not that big a deal for married couples, who can do pretty much anything in the privacy of their own home and get away with it without their neighbors reporting them, but for gay couples, even the idea that they're getting it on leads to people reporting it, and arrests."

"So basically," I respond, jonesing for a cigarette all the while, "You can have butt sex or you'll get arrested. That sucks, Broflovski. What are you going to do while you're there?"

"You should talk," Kyle responds easily, "Gonna hunt down a little Indian boy that looks like Clyde or Token and give it to them real good?"

"Touché," I mutter, clutching my stomach. I wonder how serious those 'no smoking' signs really are. Like, if I lit up in the bathroom, would they really know?

"Yeah. I get two weeks of protesting two guys' inability to get it on when I could be home doing shit with my friends," Kyle sighs, "My mom is such a bitch."

"Can't argue with that. My dad's a prick."

Kyle blinks and cocks his head to the side, "At least we're not alone."

"What?"

"You're here. I'm here. We can hang out," Kyle elaborates.

"You want to hang out. In India?"

He shrugs, "Would you rather spend time with your parents?"

"Good point."

"Who knows," Kyle grins, "Maybe we'll even become friends."

Fat chance, I think, but I just grin back. One of the bathroom doors slides open, and I bolt past a man in a turban and promptly empty the contents into my stomach into the abyssal black bowl. I can hear Kyle laughing outside, but seconds later, the other bathroom's occupant leaves and he's there, across from me, puking too. Must be divine justice.

I sit back on my heels and wipe my mouth, thinking maybe this trip won't be so bad.

Little do I know how close my life is to changing.


	2. Oh We're Still So Young, Desperate For

**These Days Just Slip Away**

_Chapter Two: Oh We're Still So Young, Desperate For Attention_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Summer's been cockblocking my writing mojo, BUT-So excited. I just wrote this great scene that you guys won't get to see…well, for like another fifty chapters (okay, not fifty, but probably ten, at least). But it's great. Really. I'm enthusiastic, yay!

* * *

The second I step off the plane, I hate India. Delhi smells like shit, and it doesn't help that what I've seen so far of the airport's a tiny, dirty little hole in the wall, and I've got an hour before we transfer flights to Bangalore. I have to use all my tricks to convince my parents to let me step outside for a smoke, and even then, I have to bring Kyle along as a chaperone. They're absolutely ecstatic he's here. Dad did give me some boring speech about how I'm still going to have to put in some 'family time', because he's under the impression that I would enjoy spending all my valuable seconds and minutes and days shooting the shit with Kyle Broflovski.

Hey, I'm happy he's here, but he's still kind of a dick.

This character flaw is emphasized while we're outside and he fishes a cell phone out of his pocket.

"Do you even get service?" I ask, because I doubt his mom shelled out for worldwide coverage.

At first I'm a bit scared to light up, because I don't see anybody else smoking. Just some dudes that look like they belong to the pocket protector club riding bicycles and a couple of trucks with drivers sleeping behind the wheel. They drive on the wrong side of the road here. I wonder if I tried, would I end up creating a sixty car pileup? My collisions always have been epic. I've gone through three cars since I got my license, plus a motorcycle. Anyway, point being, wherever this smelly spot of hell is in location to the airport, no one's dangling a cigarette between their lips. I hope it's not like, frowned upon or somethin'.

Whatever. This place is so shitty that a few cigarette butts ain't going to make that big a difference.

"Two bars. This sexy operator keeps telling me I'm dialing through Reliance Call Service," Kyle's mouth quirks, "It's probably going to cost a buttload to make any calls."

"Probably," I agree.

Two seconds later, he's calling his faggy best friend, Stan. The reason I call Stan faggy isn't because the guy's a real 'mo. Although…within the past couple of years he has been dressing in an ever increasing amount of black, and he's got this girly lip ring. No. I guess it's too much to hope for.

Stan's a jock, and a damned good one. He's lead our high school's football team to victory four years running. I guess he wasn't quite as good as everyone thought though, because he didn't get a scholarship for college. Hell, I don't even know if he's going to college. He could be joining the peace core, or something equally as fagtastic. All I know is that Stan coined the phrase 'super best friend' which was an honest title back in grade school, and became a running joke for my graduating class through most of high school. Kyle never seemed to mind much, and he still doesn't, maybe, 'cause he spends like fifteen minutes on the phone, 'til the point where I've gone through two cigarettes and am threatening to go back inside. I might just be jealous; I have two best friends who may not be 'super', but whose voices I'm dying to hear.

Kyle finally hangs up, and we go back to our jackass parents, and eventually another plane. When we get to Bangalore a few hours later, I'm not expecting much. I refused to even look out the window, opting to have my iPod headphones firmly in place so I could ignore the tight squeeze of the airplane seats and the fact that my legs are longer than the height of most of the other people on it.

Anyway, we disembark, or whatever, and the first surprise is the nasty smell is gone. I mean, the place doesn't smell like home; like ice and snow and pine, but there's definitely no stank dog shit floating under my nose anymore. The second shocker is the airport. It's bee-you-ti-ful. Like whoa. The whole place is shiny and new, with grey and black tile on the floor so bright that I can see my haggard reflection. The baggage area is practically empty. My family and the Broflovski's collect our bags; I guess Kyle's mom was planning on staying at some real local hostel, to get in touch with the people, but my mom convinced her that a hotel would be safer. We end up in this bus that my dad's company rented out just for us. The windows slide open, real cool, but my sister keeps complaining that the air's hitting her in the face. I'd like to hit her in the face, dude.

I stare outside, into the black, dark night, trying to discern why this place is different from say, Florida. It's just as humid, and I can't see much. I bet when its light out the culture shock will really set in. That's what my dad keeps saying, like he has so much experience with third world countries. I think this hotel we're staying in is going to be posh as hell.

I'm right, of course. The place is fit for a maharajah. It's even got 'Palace' in the name. Dad's gotta be spending five hundred a night on this place, or he would be if the company wasn't paying. I've never appreciated his job so much as when I fall into one of the fold out beds my sister and I are being forced to share in the suite. There may be a fucking metal bar digging into my back, but there's also a down comforter. Hell yeah. I might even use it if I weren't burning hot. It doesn't even matter, because by the time my head hits the pillow, I'm out like a light.

* * *

The next afternoon, I wake up to find my entire family has mysteriously disappeared. Okay, well, they left notes, actually. Dad's gone to check out his new job at the IT center, wherever the hell that is, and mom and my little sister have gone to the market. Kyle's sitting in front of the television, watching some show where a bunch of brown skinned people are dressed up in aluminum foil painted gold and talking to a monkey and in some language I don't understand.

"I'm supposed to babysit you," he tells me, not even bothering to look up. Bastard doesn't even seem jetlagged. I wrap my arms around myself. Someone turned on the air conditioner before they left, and its freezing. All I'm wearing is a pair of blue and black plaid pajama bottoms. Goose bumps are running up and down my chest.

"Where's your mom?"

"Some meeting for Ass Rammers Anonymous," Kyle shoots back, "Get dressed."

"Why?"

"I'm taking you out."

"Um. Is it safe?"

He rolls his eyes, "It's a foreign country, not federal prison. Don't worry, I won't let anyone shank you."

"I heard about some bombings on the news the other night though," I bite my lip, unwilling to admit that I did a little bit of googling before I came.

"I think we'll be fine. We're guys. We're tough. Bombings here aren't that frequent."

"More frequent than South Park."

"I don't know about that. Remember that mad circus clown last year?"

"Yeah. Dude. No. That's your turf. I don't fuck with all that strange shit you guys immerse yourself in."

Kyle arches an eyebrow, his piercing standing out, "I forgot. You like things nice and boring."

"That's me."

"Well. I'll protect you. God forbid the world lost a D-bag."

"I doubt you could protect me. Do they even know what Jews are here?"

"India has Jews. The first synagogue was built in Kerala in 1568. It's called the Paradesi Synagogue, and it's located in Cochin. I've heard it's nice," Kyle adds, "Plus Jews have been in India for over two thousand years."

"I get it. Thanks for the history lesson, professor."

"Right. Let's go out."

I sigh. I don't want to admit I'm scared. This hotel has all the amenities of home, but I'm pretty sure outside isn't going to be nearly as comforting.

I'm right. The second we step out, it's sweltering hot. And while the front of our hotel looks like a palace, complete with gardens and gold embellished statues, the rest of the street is filled with more traffic than I've ever seen in my life. Littered on the pavement are sandals and shoes of all kinds, none with matches, and I wonder why. Then I take a closer look at the traffic. There are people loaded onto motorbikes and scooters; entire families of four or five precariously balanced on one that wobbles beneath their weight. There are black cars that remind me of hearses, sliding gracefully through the weaving bikes like sharks in the water. There are tiny vehicles like three-wheeled golf carts, painted black with yellow tops. They're loaded with brown limbs. One's flipped over in the intersection, and two skinny, dark men try to right it.

The sun shimmers in heat waves off the asphalt.

"We're not in Kansas anymore," Kyle says, and I can tell he loves it.

We flag down a taxi, which I'm pretty sure overcharges us for the fare. I stare at the window as Kyle directs it to go to Jaya-N-word, at least that's what it sounds like to me. I stare out the window again, but it's completely different in the light. There are cows in the street and children in private school uniforms with bows in their hair, and women with strings of white flowers dangling near their neck. When we step out near a sign that reads 'Jayanagar', I take a deep breath, scared of that fresh New Delhi shit smell. Kyle and I are enveloped by a cloud of people.

Two seconds later, I'm in love.

I've never had a love affair with a place before. South Park is home, but its cold as hell and the people are all cut from the same mold. We don't have much of a culture, unless you count hick as a veritable background. This place, with its people who don't give a fuck as the bustle and hustle and the vibrant colors like butterflies flitting by in red and green and blue and pink and gold and orange and-god-the entire rainbow; they're alien and beautiful. The air smells like my sister's jasmine body wash, which I realize emanates from the flowers strung with orange beads the women are wearing in their hair, and the scent of Harbucks chai wafts over from a nearby cart. There's another scent too, one Kyle tells me is masala, which looks red and orange when we pass vendors selling spicy food mixed with onions and corn and potatoes. There's more; stalls with orange sweets covered in sticky syrup, and convenience stalls with Lays Masala Potato chips. We walk around the street, taking in busy posters for Reliance Industries Call Service and SMS texting, and pictures of Bollywood heroes with serious faces and women wearing skimpy clothes that don't actually adorn any of the girls rushing around me. All we're doing is walking and standing, but its utter chaos, and it's the most amazing thing I've ever seen in my life. People are staring at us, too. At our faces, noticing that we're outsiders, and pointing and giggling, but not in a mean way.

This entire crazy world, it's here, and it's a million miles away from home, and I'm part of it, for these next few weeks. I'm free. I could disappear into the crowd right this second, and no one would know where I'd gone. God, that's a euphoric thought.

I look at Kyle, who's seemed so composed til now, and his eyes are as big as saucers. He's surprised too. He didn't expect this. He didn't expect to get taken in. He didn't expect to fall in love with this place either. He smiles at me, and I return it. We may have been dragged here by our parents, but now we know; this is going to rock.

* * *

A/N: Please review! I know it's a short chapter, but I'm trying to cut down on the India bits; they're only supposed to be there for two weeks, but some stuff needs to happen in the next two chapters before they head home.


	3. I'm Not Gonna Teach Him How To Dance

**These Days Just Slip Away**

_Chapter Three: I'm Not Gonna Teach Him How To Dance With You_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Ahem, this might be the last, if not second to last chapter in India. I know you guys are patiently waiting for Clyde and Token and Stan and Kenny to show up. It'll happen by chapter five, I swear. (If not four; I'm only half way through this chappie as I write this note, so I'm not sure yet). By the way, all the places I mention are real, including Leela Palace- it's like the sister hotel of the Taj in Mumbai, the one that got attacked? And totally gorgeous, at that. Their website has a great picture; just google Leela Palace Bangalore, and check it out. You'll be impressed, promise.

* * *

Three days into my trip and it fucking monsoons on my head.

Rain? Yeah, I'm not a huge fan of it, and apparently in the summer here it likes to do it every single day. You can imagine my joy when I'm standing in the middle of a grimy ass street and the Indian Freaking Ocean decides to pour down on my head.

My new buddy Kyle though? He loves it. There in the middle of Commercial Street, Bangalore, he starts doing the get-down-boogey-oogey like he's in some seventies disco. Seriously gives whole new meaning to 'singing in the rain' for me.

Or dancing.

"You should take those moves into a club, Broflovski," I murmur, my voice muted by the rain. I'm soaked through to the bone. Kyle's shirt clings to his chest, white and see-through. I can make out the shape of his nipples.

"That, man, now that's an excellent idea!" Kyle grins at me, and I wish I'd just learn to keep my trap shut once in a while.

So we're on Commercial Street, like I said. It's basically this big fucking street filled with stores full of jewelry and clothes and tourist-trap shit, and there's vendors selling anything you can imagine. My favorite's over by a sweet store, a place that sells orange twisty pretzel things that taste like petrified funnel cake soaked in syrup and these cream puffs that are more like custard shoved in a hamburger bun and taste mmm-mmm good. There's a guy who stands outside and sells this mix of food in a popcorn paper cone; this crushed corn and onion and salty, bready chip type thing covered in masala, which is like paprika but better. I love this guy. I've visited him like five times already today, paying ten rupees for each cone. That's like, a dollar for all five, by the way.

Girls prance by me in saris, spelled sarees; that's what all the stores say. Sari with a double ee. I guess something got crossed in the American spelling. Anyway, these girls and these women, they're wrapped up like tropical birds, showing the skin of their abdomens and the back of their neck and their dark chocolate and milk chocolate arms. Sometimes they're skinny as twigs and sometimes they're round and as full as the Pillsbury doughboy. They've got red powder in their hair, or smears of what look like blood and rice on the center of the forehead, or maybe nothing at all. Their arms jingle with bangles in every color.

Sometimes the girls aren't dressed in sarees at all. Sometimes they're wearing denim skirts and tight t-shirts, but nothing near as slutastic as the girls back home. In the hotel I watched some movie about Mumbai; couldn't understand a word, but apparently the girls dress a little more skanky there. I like looking at their legs; girls from Northern India have paler skin, like burnished gold, while the girls native to hear look…well, blacker, like they've got ancestors from Africa or something.

The guys dress normal. Sometimes they look like geeks, stick skinny with pocket protectors and bicycles that look like they've seen better days. Sometimes they look like Kyle and me, with our jeans and our band tees and our wallet chains.

By the way, the Pizza Hut here is ace. It's an actual fucking restaurant, with an upstairs and a downstairs and better garlic bread than I've ever had. My next mission is to find a steak place; you'd think with all the Muslims running around there'd be at least one. Even the McDonald's only serves chicken and fish.

I spent most of my first day exploring with Kyle, walking around Jayanagar and drinking coconut milk and sugar cane juice, which is epically good. Men with machetes chop the coconut's in half and give you long straws, and they put the sugar cane through this crushing, rolling contraption that I don't entirely get, but it tastes pretty frickin' awesome. It comes in different flavors too, like masala. Well, everything comes masala flavored here, even the potato chips.

We went to eat at some place where Kyle warned me not to drink from the straws; he said they reuse them, and the bottles too, and I could kind of see specks of something inside both. He also keeps warning me not to get ice in anything, because then I'll get a case of Montezuma's Revenge that's actually called Delhi Belly or some shit, and anything that might make me smell like Delhi isn't on the top of my list of things to do.

That was the long and short of our first day. The second I didn't see him, because my family dragged me to some local shrine where I had to look at a giant statue of some guy sitting cross legged with a huge ass necklace, and another guy that looked kind of like what would happen if you stuck an elephant head on and got real fat.

My mom said I didn't have any appreciation for local culture.

Apparently eating Masala Lays Chips the whole time didn't count.

It seemed like a big gyp to me anyway. They wouldn't let you take pictures unless you paid for them. My sister snuck on her camera phone. She's got pretty good aim.

The monsoon stops like, ten minutes after it started. Now we're wet and the sun's half-out, but I'm not feeling so miserable anymore. Kyle drags me down Commercial Street past rickshaws and beggars and strangers awed by his vibrant red hair. Men are pissing in broad daylight and women are holding babies in slings.

We go back to our hotel around sunset. The sky is on fire, man. It's burning across the clouds, orange and red and raging over a pool of blue.

"Meet me after dinner," Kyle commands. He's fiddling with his eyebrow piercing, a nervous habit I'd noticed before but hadn't annoyed me quite so much until now.

"Why? What are we doing after dinner?"

Kyle just smirks and abandons me for his loud mouth mother.

* * *

I wait around by one of the many fake waterfalls the hotel's got set up after dinner. The sky's purple, and if I squint just so, I can imagine the turrets of the hotel belonging to a real palace, with real maharajas, like fucking Aladdin.

'Course, Kyle comes along with a cigarette dangling from his lips and the tightest jeans I've ever seen, ruining the whole picture.

"Steal those pants from Marsh?" I sneer.

He blinks, glances down, and goes, "Actually, yeah."

I shoot him an annoyed look that plaintively asks 'why-do-you-do-this-to-me'.

Kyle winks at me, "I thought I'd give India a thrill."

Oh. Oh yeah. That's the other thing.

Guys hold hands here.

It's like a utopia for homosexuals, or at least that's what I thought until Kyle told me all the ways gay people were suppressed here and blah blah blah.

I kind of tuned out. It's his mother's job to fight for the masses, not mine.

Back to the hand holding. It's like normal.

I saw four guys this morning all connected, the first held hands with the second who had his arm wrapped around the waist of the third who had his arm over the shoulder of the fourth. It was kind of sickening, but not in a nauseous, I-wanna-puke-my-guts-out way. More like in an I-feel-really-uncomfortable-in-my-own-skin-right-now-and-want-to-not-be-seeing-this-so-everything-can-go-back-to-normal way.

"Well, you might," I examine him seriously, "So what are we doing?"

"Going to a club? Duh, I thought we covered this like, this afternoon," Kyle crosses his arms and looks supremely satisfied, like a guy who's way too in love with his own ideas.

"Um, isn't that a little gay? Two guys, going alone to a club?"

"Hello, we're in India. It's not like anyone will know," Kyle stresses the last word and then continues, "Besides, I'm not going there _with _you. We're just going together. Maybe we'll meet some people."

"I don't know."

"Craigggg," he whines, "Come on, it'll be cultural."

"Oh yeah, 'cause that's a compelling argument."

"I bet there will be girls."

"Meh," I snort, thinking if they're anything like the girls I've seen so far, they're not worth my interest.

"Now who's a little gay?" Kyle's eyebrow pierce winks in the light, and he's giving me this look that demands I do what he says.

I frown and concede, "It's not like I have anywhere else to go."

Kyle whoops and hollers and scares off a few Austrian tourists before he says, "I knew you'd cave, loser."

"Sure you did."

I follow him out past palace guards that are really just cleverly disguised bellhops. We flag down an auto rickshaw; up until this afternoon we'd been taking taxis like we were tourists in New York City. Then one of Mrs. Broflovski's gay chickens clues us in that we were being ripped off epically, which I'd kind of suspected all along. So we'd decided to give the deathtraps a try. I'd seen two already overturned on the medians of highways, three men with scrawny muscles bulging trying to put them to rights. Anything running on three wheels other than a tricycle seems fishy to me, but once Kyle haggles the price down to something like three dollars and I'm inside, sitting amongst stickers plastered like wounds over vinyl, I'm feeling good. That is until we hit the first bump and I decide that clinging to Kyle might be the only way to save myself from imminent death.

I'm pretty sure something this small isn't supposed to go so quickly.

"Dude, how to they fit like eight people in these things?" I squeak, recalling earlier that morning when I saw a group packed like a sardine can inside one of these, a clown car in blue and yellow.

"Get a grip, Craig," Kyle says, and I suppose that's supposed to be soothing. Either way I can't catch my breath until we're back on Commercial Street, spots of pale peach, sticking out like sore thumbs.

Kyle leads me up to a nondescript building situated near my favorite Pizza Hut and a store full of knick knacks. We go inside, and there's an elevator that doesn't work and a set of stairs that look like they might lead up to the "Art Gallery" in that movie Hostel.

Sensing my thoughts, Kyle tells me to stop being such a total pussy. I straighten my back, even though I'm not fooling anyone, and follow him up. The closer we get, my ears are assaulted with thumping, pounding remixes of songs I've heard wisps of in the taxis and stores we've visited so far. I can hear people singing along inside, yelling out words that make no sense to me.

We pay a cover fee and get a drink receipt before heading inside.

To be honest, it's not that different from a club back home. There are flashing lights, loud, thumping music, and tons of people. There are a few peculiarities. Most of the people here seem like they're either some kind of Asian or really, really African.

I don't know what's up with that until Kyle leans in close and says, "They're mostly tourists or people here on business. One of the college kids I met earlier told me that they usually go to hookah bars and all night cafes instead of clubs on school nights, so we'll have to check out what it's like on weekends sometime before we leave."

The other huge difference is the smoking. I swear, Kyle must be in hog heaven right now. Everyone's lighting up, cigarette smoke making their silhouettes dance in the flickering light.

We order two Kingfishers, which is pretty much the only beer you can get around these parts for cheap. It costs a mint to get Coronas or Bud. Anyway, the stuff tastes pretty decent, so there's no reason to switch.

Actually, I spend a while trying to get vodka, but the bartender hasn't got any. What kind of bar has no vodka, I demand? Kyle just glares at me.

After about ten awkward minutes, I excuse myself to use the hole in the ground- excuse me, restroom.

When I come back, I get a shock. Kyle's surrounded by a group of girls and guys with saucer eyes, all staring up at him like he's got the secrets of the universe walled up inside him.

He sits there in the middle of the bar, a Kingfisher cradled in one hand and shots lined up next to him, his image reflected in the pupils of all his doting fans.

He's a young god.

He's fucking Bacchus.

Then he crooks his finger at me, beckoning.

The spell's broken.

"Dude, I have no idea what to do with all this," Kyle gestures at his adoring entourage, obviously at a loss, "It's kind of freaking me out."

"Where the hell did they all come from?"

"Oh," he looks kind of sheepish, "I don't know. One of them just started talking to me about home and the rest of them all just kind of…came."

"Looks like you're starting a cult."

"Seriously, Craig. Not funny."

"Well, say something. Dismiss them, like a good king."

"I hate you."

"Nah," I watch as Kyle makes a spectacle of himself trying to leave. One girl asks him to dance, and a boy requests that he describe South Park. They're entranced by his red hair and his too green eyes, and the way his voice gets all high and squeaky when he's nervous. Finally he grabs my arm and tells them all that he's going to dance.

With me.

I'm dragged out to the floor, bemoaning, "Man, not cool. Now they all think we're fags."

"At least they're gone!"

The blood in my veins thrums in time with the music, but I won't move to it. I hate dancing. I always look like an idiot.

Kyle, though. He's kind of good at it. He's moving and winding and grinding up against me, and maybe I'm forgetting for a second that we look gayer than gay.

All around me there are girls with kohl rimmed eyes and black liquid irises, and lips the color of bruised fruit. I don't even notice them because of the way Kyle's dancing.

I manage to snap myself back to reality for a second, "Imagine if our friends saw this."

"We'd never hear the end of it," Kyle comments, bobbing his head, shaking his hips. I stand there like a scarecrow, planted to keep all the curious Bangalore-ians away. Haha, I just thought of a pun. Bang-galore. Get it?

I guess it doesn't have the same ring as Pussy Galore, hunh?

"They're such douchebags."

"They are," Kyle agrees, "Imagine if we never had to go back."

Wait, what?

I grab Kyle's shoulders, stilling him, and say, "Dude, that would rip, hard."

He's watching me, unreadable, and it occurs to me that I really don't know him that well. Three days and a lifetime of being acquainted through school, but nothing solid. Nothing real.

"Would it?"

"What would you do if you never got to see Marsh again? Or McCormick?"

I don't add his third bastard friend, because really, no one considers Eric Cartman a friend.

"I'd survive," he says drily.

"Seriously? I thought you guys were fucking Siamese triplets or something."

"It's complicated."

Okay, so I have this insatiable curiosity. I should have let Broflovski have his peace right then, but instead I went and got myself into trouble.

"Tell me about it."

He crosses his arms, green eyes narrowed, "Craig, no."

"C'mon, Brof. You only live once."

"It's none of your business, asshole."

"I'm making it my business."

"What, so you can gossip about it like a girl to fucking Token and Clyde?"

"I wouldn't do that!" and yeah, maybe I start to get a little pissed. All around me people are singing along to the club music, yelling something out that sounds like 'johnny john!' and swaying. Not exactly primo arguing territory.

That's when this tall, lanky African guy starts dancing up behind Kyle. Now maybe if he'd done it before, I would have understood. When Kyle was twisting his body like some sort of fucking cyclone, I could have almost understood another guy taking it as an invitation.

But he's not dancing now. He's glaring at me, full out, standing rigid. Yet for some reason this tourist guy thinks Kyle's open for ass ramming.

See, I called it; looking gay in public is always a bad thing.

Kyle obviously freaks. He elbows the guy in the gut and backs away, only to have his ass fucking manhandled by this old Indian dude. I can see his eyes grow wide as hell, and I can see him inwardly spontaneously combusting.

Violence is about to abrupt.

Now, since I'm a total pacifist, I flip the old guy off and snatch Kyle right up and out of the club.

Once we're on the street, his face is red, he's breathing hard, and he yells, "What the fuck did you do that for?"

"You were about to whale on some fifty year old, dude."

"So? He grabbed my ass!"

"Whatever," I say dismissively, thinking he shouldn't have done the whole homoerotic dance thing in the first place, "I don't want to get arrested in a third world country. Haven't you ever seen fucking Brokedown Palace?"

I shudder just thinking of what an Indian jail would look like.

"God! You're such a pussy. Sometimes, Craig, you've got to grab life by the balls and just see where it takes you.'

I tilt my head, considering, "Well I think that old guy and the black dude up there want to grab you by the balls."

He's giving me the so-not-funny look again.

Before we can continue the conversation, as if out of my imagination, a cop walks up. The cops in India wear fucking night sticks and carry batons, so they're pretty easy to recognize. He starts yelling at us in an incomprehensible language, waving the stick around like he plans to clonk us on the head. Jesus.

"Shit. We're out past curfew," Kyle mutters, and frantically digs a few rupees out of his pocket, handing them to the cop. Bribing him.

It doesn't work, which I never really thought it would. Kyle then starts panicking, waving down an auto rickshaw and pulling me into it. All the while, the cop keeps yelling.

"What was that about?" I ask once we're moving.

"Curfew. He didn't like our skin. You pick."

"You tried to bribe him. Isn't that like, illegal?"

"Not here. One of my mom's group told me that you can usually bribe the cops enough to get out of anything. I guess I didn't have enough cash."

I whistle, surprised, "Anything? Even murder?"

"It's different here," is all Kyle says.

A couple minutes later he adds, "Parts of the government are corrupt, decaying from the inside out."

That's a lot to digest. I'm suddenly not as enthusiastic about being here. What if something happens? That would screw me right on out of my quiet, peaceful life.

We stop at a stand for chai, or Indian tea, which tastes nothing like what you get at Harbucks. It's more watery, and tastes hella better.

We sit on a brick wall that lines an unpaved road where the chai stand is, staring up at the stars. It's funny, but I can't see very many. I guess Bangalore is more of a city than South Park.

"Chai's pretty good," Kyle comments.

"It'd be better if we could spike it with vodka."

"What is it with you and vodka, man?"

"It's God's nectar," I reply, a snarky grin twisting my lips.

Kyle rolls his eyes, "Seriously?"

"Russians knew their shit; that's all I'm saying."

He gives me this look, the kind where you know the person's just thinking 'uhhhh, what the fuck is wrong with this kid'. I just smirk. I like smirking. It makes me look badass.

Then, out of the blue, he says, "Kenny told me he has a thing for me."

"A thing?" I hold my hands out about six inches apart and say, "This kind of thing?"

I don't know why I'm not flipping out. I'm stunned, sure, but my automatic response is to crack a joke about it.

"He told me he likes me. He wants to…I don't know, date or something."

"Did you tell him you like girls?" I settle back against the wall, sure this is going to be a serious conversation.

Kyle gives me a withering look, and oh.

"So what's the problem then?"

I'm not prepared for what comes next. I'm so so-not-prepared that I nearly fall of the wall when he tells me.

"The problem is…I guess…I like Stan."

"Marsh? You like Marsh?"

"Yeah," Kyle pulls a cigarette carton from his jeans, tapping one out. His hands are shaking.

After two failed attempts at lighting it I pull the thing away, push it between my lips, hold the lighter close, and breathe in. I feel like I'm drowning, dizzy, losing oxygen.

When I finally breathe out again, I say, "Well shit. Aren't you living in a soap opera?"

I guess it was the right thing to say. He half-smiles.

Then he punches me in the arm.

Ow.

* * *

A/N: I lied, we have one more chapter in India. I guess I'm kind of liking these five page size ten font single spaced chapters. This setting the scene thing is killing me, but I promise you, there's this one crucial thing that's going to happen next chapter that will directly affect the very end of the story, back in South Park. And no, before anyone asks, Craig and Kyle aren't going to hook up. Oh, and the song that's referenced is 'Pehli Nazar Mein' by Atif Aslam, which was a popular club/summer hit in '08; remixed, at least. I guess that's when I conceived of this story, so that's when I kind of place Kyle and Craig in India. The original version is kind of slow, but feel free to youtube it. Oh, and thanks again for all the reviews so far, and please continue to do so! I really appreciate it!


	4. Oh, It Hurts To Be This Good

**These Days Just Slip Away**

_Chapter Four: Oh, It Hurts To Be This Good_

By: Jondy Macmillan

* * *

Right before we leave India, we go to a temple.

It's called the ISKON Sri Sri Radha Sri Krishna Chandra Temple. If that sounds familiar; rings a bell like those you hear at airports, I wouldn't be surprised. It's a Hare Krishna temple. My parents and Mrs. Broflovski want to go there on a tour a few days before we were due to leave.

Obviously Kyle and I band together, if only to talk about how much this is going to blow. Even Kyle with all his cultural lovin' isn't big on the Hare Krishnas with their orange robes and bare heads and promises of heaven on earth.

We take a tour, and we have to start at the very bottom, where the temple doesn't look impressive in the least. Our guide from the place makes us do everything proper like, handing us laminated cards that read 'Hare Ram Hare Ram Ram Ram Hare Hare, Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare.'

None of us know what to do with the cards until we get in line for the temple. There the tour guide explains that we aren't in a line, per se, but a prayer line. There are stone slabs laid out on the ground. Each time a person steps forward, they're supposed to step on a stone, like musical chairs. On that stone, the person is supposed to rehearse the lines on the prayer card we'd been given.

It's ridiculous. You're supposed to say the whole hare hare thing like fifty thousand times. Half way through Kyle and I are making up our own rhymes; well, until Sheila Broflovski slaps us both upside the head.

There's another tour group from the US, small and full of girls. I hear one say that she doesn't like this kind of brainwashing and that it's making her uncomfortable.

I think that's kind of rude. I mean, sure, the whole thing is funny, but it isn't like they're trying to convert us. They're just trying to show us what their temple is about, the same way when we went to Hindu temples they taught us how to pray, to hold our hands over the fire and then run them through our hair as a blessing.

Anyway, the girl shuts up when we got to the end of the line, and that was only because she has to exert herself going up the millions of steps that lead to the actual temple.

Let me tell you, it's beyond worth it.

I'm not big on scenery or landscapes, or saying something's breathtaking, but this place; yeah, it is.

Huge white walls like a fortress stand before us, gilded double doors leading in and out of the place in the four compass directions. Inside there are people, everywhere; I've never seen so many people in one building, even at hockey games.

They're sitting on the marble tiled floor, praying, talking, staring. Our tour guide is telling us that the ISKON temple feeds thousands every single day and is completely philanthropic, but I've tuned out. There are pictures of Krishna in different stages of his life hanging above my head. In the week and a half I've been here, I'd figured out that Krishna was always portrayed as a blue guy, sometimes with a flute. He isn't a god so much as an avatar of a god named Vishnu, which all the people I'd met pronounced Wishnu.

Brown people and the 'v's? Not so much.

It's kind of funny to get them to say vanilla vodka though.

Anyway, these paintings show Krishna as a baby, Krishna dancing with his lover Radha, being surrounded by women, and a bunch of other things. He's supposed to be like the consummate lover, like the Kenny McCormick of back-in-the-day.

Thinking about Kenny makes me think about Kyle's confession, which I've been carefully avoiding all week.

I try to concentrate on the temple instead. Those doors I talked about are all flung wide, and we're on the top of a hill- guess all those stairs had to be good for something. Outside the city sparkles, lights and shadows and luminosity. The sun is beginning to set, the sky blazing puddles of blue, orange, sugar pink, and red like splashes of blood.

And I'll admit it. My breath's kind of stolen away.

When we leave the main room, the bright, sunset streaked magic for dark tunnels leading down through the hill to a faraway exit, Kyle and I ditch the familials. Mrs. Broflovski's voice is loud enough to disrupt even the most steadfast prayers, and even Kyle wants to put distance between his mom and him.

I, of course, agree.

The dark tunnels give way to alleys filled with candles and people pushing wears; malas, like rosaries, pictures of Krishna and Radha, statues and candles and incense. There are laddoos; sweet confections rolled up in balls that you're supposed to buy for the many statues of Krishna, as an offering. Kyle and I buy some to eat ourselves, which is all kinds of sacrilegious.

At one point, we're standing in the midst of the candlelit temple, weaving through men wearing white lungis wrapped around their knobby knees and tiny waists and robust women in saris with sweat stains beneath their arms, the scent of jasmine heady in the air, and the scenery a flickering, glowing dreamscape. I see a little girl, huddled at her mother's side, as thin and angular as a boy. She can't be more than twelve, if that. Her hair is short and black as an oil slick. Her skin is gold and brown, and shimmers like burnt milk in the firefly light. Her eyes are huge, rimmed with thick kajol, and luminous. They're a blue that is both electric and milky, like the afterimage of a firework on the back of your eyelid. I stare, because I can't help myself. Because I've never known that somebody's eyes could be so entrancing; that the beauty of an underfed Indian girl's eyes could be so majestic, and so terrifying.

She sees me looking and smiles, the perfect childhood gap-toothed smile. She opens her mouth, and from it spills music, nonsensical to my ear. The only word I can discern is 'Krishna' and I can only assume she's referring to the temple and not my creepy stalker stare.

There's hot breath in my ear, and I feel Kyle's lips turn into a smile as he murmurs, "She said you have beautiful eyes."

"You speak Indian now?" I ask, tearing my gaze from the girl for an instant.

"It's Kannada," he draws back from me, turning to full geek mode, "And the tour guide told me."

Sure enough, I see the tour guide leading our parents away in the crowd. I look at the girl and mouth 'thank you', because what else do you say when the person with the most hauntingly gorgeous eyes you've ever seen tells you that your own are nice? If anything, her smile gets wider.

It's weird how things stick with you. As we finally emerge from the winding maze inside ISKON, the afterimage of candlelight pressing into my brain, I just know that I'm going to remember that little girl until I'm ninety, but I'm not sure why.

It stops seeming important after a while.

* * *

I'm not sentimental. At all.

But the plane ride home is one of the saddest trips I've ever taken. I don't want to leave India, the vibrant color and sound and way of life that makes South Park seem a pale shade in comparison. The only plus, as far as I can see, is going back to Token and Clyde, whom I haven't even been able to send a postcard to because it costs some twenty five dollars in postage. I'm looking forward to sitting in Clyde's living room, banging back beers and playing Call of Duty again, which is how all three of us had originally planned our summer going, back before my dad decided our family needed some third world education. It's weird though; as much as I'm looking forward to it, drinking and playing video games with my two best friends doesn't hold the same appeal it did at graduation. I feel like there's more we could be doing, seeing, living.

Kyle sits next to me on the voyage back, because his mom changed their flight to match up with ours. It's a small mercy. I was supposed to sit next to my sister, who's constant brittle banter about which celebrity is banging which and how much she misses her many admirers back home has been grating on my last nerve. That's the one bad thing about family trips; too much family time.

Anyway, Kyle's asleep through most of the flight, having gotten a head start on the tiny bottles of liquor they pass out at snack time for a small added fee. I think he stole them out of the stewardess's cart when she came rolling by.

He snores away on my shoulder like this is the last good sleep he's ever going to get. I don't know if he's just an alcoholic in training or if he's terrified to see Kenny and Stan in person again. I'd bet on the latter; even though he called both of them pretty much every day while we were all the way across the world, hearing their voices and seeing them are two entirely different things.

I feel for him. Really, I do. I don't get how he could be so fucking confused that he falls for his two best friends. That's not the kind of thing that happens to people I know. The most drama we ever got is Bebe Stevens getting trashed and passing out on someone's lawn during our graduation party.

It must really suck to be in Kyle's position, and I'm glad- horribly so, that I'm never going to be there.

I can't imagine liking Token or Clyde that way, even though they're both pretty much the funniest guys I've ever met. They're both handsome too, the kind of handsome that has girls practically swooning at their feet in feeble attempts to catch their attention.

I mean I'm an attractive guy- stop laughing, it's true.

I'm attractive, but Clyde's on our football team, which pretty much makes him Park County royalty, and Token's rich as fucking hell, which equates to the same damn thing. Plus they both have charisma, something they've explained involves not flipping off every obnoxious girl we meet. I can't help it; it's instinct.

Kyle shifts on my shoulder, making this pathetic little noise like a dog or a little kid or something, and I groan. I can't believe he's drawing me into this thought process where I have to worry about all his problems. A couple of weeks ago I wouldn't have wasted a spare thought on the kid.

Traipsing across another country with a guy will do that to you I suppose.

Out the window it's a sea of blue, and I wonder if things really will change when I get home, or if they'll be exactly the same as I remember. Imagine if we never had to go back, Kyle had said at that club. It seemed idiotic when he said it, but now I get what he means. I want things to stay the same, sure, but another part of me is holding my breath, waiting for change.

If this trip has taught me anything, it's that change opens many doors.

But it closes them too, and I'm not sure if I'm ready for that.

* * *

A/N: Alright, super short chapter, and I'm sorry for taking so long to update. But, much as this chapter seems like filler, the ISKON temple bit is going to come into play many chapters later, so remember it! Please review!


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